


Those Four and He

by Euro



Category: BioShock
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1698431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euro/pseuds/Euro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Four Disciples and Sander Cohen had always had the most unusual of relationships to each other.  Five people that don't match find themselves trapped on the bottom of the sea with nowhere to go and nothing but time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ice in his Heart

**Author's Note:**

> So this is more of just short one shots in no particular order between characters (maybe later when I have more written I'll order them or something). I started writing this thing on Tumblr and I sort of want to bring it over here so more people can enjoy it. If you guys want to help out or want to see something written, feel free to shoot me a theme or suggestion or maybe even just a pairing between the five. I can get on board the ships between all of them so it doesn't matter much to me which pairing you suggest if you do. My tumblr is: juliestoflangfords.tumblr.com.

The slow tap of water around the edges of the door was broken by the crack of gunfire.  Ice, frozen, cold, why was the water tapping?

Tick, tick, tick, tick, like the ticking hand of a grandfather clock.  Deep in the bottom of the ocean, there was ice.  Poseidon Plaza had frozen over.  The door had been sealed solid to keep those out and to keep him in.  Martin Finnegan raised his head from his latest sculpture, the sound of moving water, not frozen, not ice, but dripping, caught his attention.  There was nothing but ice in this freezer.  He dropped the lifeless hand of the corpse he held and craned his head toward the entrance.  Poseidon had become Boreas.  But winter seemed to be breaking.  The door had broke, the outside was coming in.

More gunfire, screaming, people where crying out in terror and pain.  He could tell the difference between the two.  The deaths of the others with him in this frozen hell taught him such.

His feet were surprisingly steady on the ice covered floor, the twinge of purple on his lips and the blue on his cheeks had come to be a perpetual condition about him.  The plasmid encrusted his fingers to the bone as though frostbite had set in yet had never killed off his extremities.  There was water, the light of the outside world came through a split along the side of the holding door and something came up within him like a punch to his throat.  Hate.  Ice.  Cold.  Hate.

He was free.

_He was coming, Sander, baby._

He could have almost laughed to himself if it didn’t hurt to do so.

With a push of his shoulder, he was able to break free from his icy prison.  Almost instantly, it was far too hot for him and the sweat broke out across his forehead.  The first time in a very long while that had happened and it only made the grating hate within him worse.  Step by step, his footprints left a crystallized trail.  There was fire and caved in ceiling rafters and cracked floor tiles. The bullet holes pockmarked the walls.  Whoever was firing guns inside Fort Frolic was of no concerned to him.  Or rather… it seemed groups of people were fighting.  How fucking odd.  He had heard plenty of people pulling bullets on each other as of lately, but none of this magnitude.  Finnegan couldn’t be bothered despite giving it more thought than he would have liked.  If he were to take a bullet between his teeth, so be it, but he would be taking someone down with him first.

His feet picked up their pace as the strides of ice grew longer.  Anyone he passed, he froze with a flick of his fingertips, not caring who they were or if they were armed or not.  He had one thing on his mind: revenge.

_Sander!_   He finally called breaking into a run.

The doors to the stage were open and he burst through them like the storm itself.

_Sander.  Where are you?_ He thundered, his voice echoing around the empty stage and house.  _Sander, you old fruit.  Show yourself_.

He didn’t know why he was yelling.  Perhaps he just knew that the man he wanted dead would be in here.  Perhaps he felt the need to scream after being in a box for so long.

_Ah, my Martin_ came a soothing voice.  There he sat, the first row, his fingers folded like he was observing a performance, taking notes, criticizing, sounding like the sudden appearance of martin Finnegan on his stage did not surprise him.  _Do come in and stay a spell_.

_Sander fucking… Cohen_.  Finnegan spat out the last name as though it were poison on his tongue.

The other man cocked his head and nodded, the twisted smile crossed his face, punctuated with running eyeliner and cracked makeup.  The stray hair that fell in his eyes, the way the lipstick on his mouth rippled at the corner of his mouth, Finnegan hated it.

_Have you come to exact some sort of… sordid revenge on me, dear Martin?_

_How’d you fucking guess?_

_Ah, perhaps call it a hunch or perhaps call it intuition.  In fact, call it anything that you like.  Nothing matters anymore; my Martin_ He put his hands up and stretched his arms wide without rising from the seat _Everything has fallen down around here and I am taking this opportunity to build it back up into something more… wonderful, something more beautiful and exquisite._

As though on cue, a crack echoed around the stage, followed by a slow rumble, akin to distant thunder.  He had not heard that sound in years, he had not heard that sound in so long that he had almost forgotten it.

_What’s going on out there?_

Cohen laughed, his head dropped back as though talking to a child.  _Dear Martin, you are so very behind on the times.  Outside, there is a war.  Atlas has played his turn like you yourself have._

Finnegan’s eyes narrowed _And his band of bone-heads are in here?  You helpin’ him?_

_Of course not, everyone in here is simply… afraid.  You know, dear Martin, if you put too many rats in a room they will grow suspicious.  And then they will grow frantic and soon they will be painting with each others blood.  Atlas is out there, but oooohhh, the true art of revolution is in here._

_You would know a lot ‘bout keeping packs of rats in tight spaces_.  The red rush of color came to his pale cheeks.  He had enough with idle talk.  It was deep within his mind that he could simply corner his former boss, his former partner, his former… lover and simply kill him.  He would freeze him, or he would throttle him or he would drive his fist through the other man’s neck, but he would kill him.  Corner.  Freeze him to death, just like he had tried to do to him.  Kill.  He grit his teeth and aimed the ice from his fingers, right between Cohen’s eyes.

The frozen blast hit nothing but a flurry of rose petals and the velvet of the theatre chair.  _Sander, you bastard_.

_Keep trying, Martin, perhaps you could hit something for a change._

_At least I could hit and didn’t go off before taking aim._ His eyes frantically scanned the area for the rush of red.  When he heard the sound, his head snapped upwards to the cat walks.  There he was, the nancing son of a bitch.  He wound up his arm again and took another shot at the man he hated, only to miss once more.  The laughing that greeted him drove him deeper into anger.  _STOP RUNNING AWAY!_

_I am not running, dear Martin, I am simply… observing_.

_Observing?  What?_ He couldn’t catch him.  He couldn’t kill him.  No matter how fast the ice flew from his fingers, he was never fast enough and it made him snort like an angry bull.

There was a laugh that issued form Cohen’s lips that seemed to fill the theatre.  Like the grimly happy Cheshire cat.  This Cheshire cat had blood on his hands and blood on his brain as he grinned through a plastered on grin.  _Why, don’t you know your Shakespeare„ Martin?_

_I don’t fucking follow_ …

_You are Macbeth, come from your victories to take over mine by … killing me_.  Cohen chuckled again, his voice seeming to come from everywhere and no where inside the theatre, _But… unfortunately for this production, the woods have come too quickly to our door step, you haven’t had a chance to kill the king yet, dear Martin.  Hurry now, Macbeth, dooooo hurry.  Macduff approaches._

The rush and sound landed Cohen right in the aisle of the house.  Right where Finnegan would have a clear shot at him, right where he could drive the icy blast right into the other man’s chest and freeze the very blood inside his veins.  He would get him, Cohen couldn’t teleport forever.  He bared his crooked teeth and wound his arm, preparing to shoot quickly when he suddenly felt the rough grab of his shoulder form behind him and the fire across his chest.  Pain, hurt, there was suddenly blood on his shirt, running, seeping through to his vest.  He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it.  The tip of the knife that found itself seated within his chest, reaching through his back towards his lungs.  Finnegan’s eyes widened and he let out a gasp.

He twisted his head as the blade twisted deeper into him and caused his muscles to lock.  _Kid…_ He grunted, the terrified green eyes of Fitzpatrick stared into his, the young boy held onto the weapon buried inside him.

Cohen was in front of Finnegan in a flash, his dirty hands, clammy fingers snatched Finnegan’s chin into them.  _How dare you, Martin Finnegan_ , _how dare you think you could come in here, in to my stage and… ahha, Kill me!!  How uncouth of you._

He slapped Finnegan as hard as he could, sending the man’s already tilting world spinning sharply.  Cohen then began to pace, his hands touching his right cheek as though he were observing a work of art, the excitement evident in his body.  The flush sat on his cheeks as his mouth quivered with his waxed mustache.  _Yes.  Yes, yes, yes.  Give us another thrust, Macduff._

Before Finnegan could react, there was another stab.  Lower, at his side, catching his hip bone as Fitzpatrick held him.

Cohen almost giggled with glee before his face suddenly became deathly serious, fire at his eyes.  _You don’t have an ally in the world, dear Martin.  Not a soul to give a damned about you.  You have nothing, Martin, and yet… perhaps you came here thinking that you could kill me and perhaps that would give you something?  But alas, you don’t even have that either.  What a pity._

Finnegan felt the hands holding him up let him go and he fell to his knees.  He couldn’t breathe, the dark dampened his eyes and somehow he was on the ground on his side.  Breathe.  Try to breathe, inhale.  He couldn’t fucking inhale.

 

_Wh-what have I done?_

_You have done right, young Fitzpatrick_.

_But… have I… killed him?_

_What shall I do with him is the more pressing question, young Fitzpatrick, I cannot have him like this, it… displeases me and makes an unusable, cluttered mess center stage.  No one would be able to stage anything around him_.

Move him.  Freeze him.  Leave him to rot where he came from.  Seal him in his tomb.

Finnegan couldn’t feel it.  He didn’t remember it.  He just felt the slow throb of his frozen heart and the ooze of blood between his fingers on his chest.  He felt himself will the slow drop of his temperature.  His heart couldn’t beat, he would bleed out and he knew it if it did.  He didn’t want to die, he had too much anger within him.  He couldn’t die.  Then the black. 

He wouldn’t remember most of it.  He wouldn’t remember the tug and pull as he was dragged back into the cold.  He wouldn’t remember the frantic hands and the shaking voice that apologized to him, apologized profusely for doing what he did.  When there was no more Cohen around, he wouldn’t remember the shaking hands sticking the raw ADAM into his veins in hopes of it doing something.  He wouldn’t member the sealing of his grave.

The passage of time didn’t occur to him when he felt his eyes open.  There was only silence and a metal ceiling above him that was covered in ice.

The sacred rush of breath came into his chest like the sting of a knife between his ribs.  He shook, violently, the hypothermia set in his bones.  Even for someone so cold as him, he shook like he did the first few hours he stared at these walls.  He was on the floor inside of his freezer.  The ice had frozen to his shirt and kept him down on the ground.  Moving his hand, he felt his side.  The blood had frozen, but the wounds were closed, the ADAM sealed them like a tattered envelope.  The cold had saved him, but he still pressed his fingers into the indentations on his pale skin where the blood had come form that he was certain would kill him.  Taped back together thanks to ADAM.  Healed and alive.  Yet he didn’t feel healed.  He felt… death.  The need to kill.  The need… for more.  More ice.  More cold.  More ADAM.  Despite the violent shaking that wracked his body, it didn’t disturb the sudden clearness of his mind.  He would kill, and he would succeed next time.

He would… win.  The anger came back into his head.

Once he was free, Sander Cohen would be dead.  He had ice in his heart for now.


	2. Yo también.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Request for something Fitzpatrick/Rodriguez and so I did the things.

When Cohen grew tired of the blue-balled sculptor and the hick singer, he brought on the brow-skinned actor and drove that man into a bottle.  When Cohen grew tired of him, he brought in me and promised me that, with him, I would be the greatest musician in all of Rapture.  I almost believed him.

Fort Frolic was quiet too often now; since the rise of Atlas, people decided that staying in their homes would save them from the crazy people walking the street.  These days, the shouts from deep within the fort came from one person.  Rodriguez didn’t come up from the bar, but the shouts and screams of his drunken ramblings did.  Poor sot, I don’t know every detail of how it happened, but I knew he never was like this until he met Cohen.  He always told me that he was never appreciated, but then again, that is what Cobb had said as well and I never really learned more than that.

Cohen had been face down on the floor that night, snoring quite contently in the haze of alcohol and ADAM induced euphoria.  I snuck out; reasons are my own, though at the time, I simply told myself it was for air.  I didn’t bring any weapon and that was silly of me, but at that point, getting my neck ripped open by someone might not have been so bad.  I hadn’t seen him in months it seemed.  I had heard him, but I had not seen him.   Somehow I had ended up at his door that night.  He wasn’t at the bar and that made me concerned.  I thought he had died.  At this time, anyone could be alive one day and dead the next and even though I was not supposed to associate with him, I didn’t want to find him dead.

I had knocked and he had answered and I almost smiled when I heard the turn of   the handle.  He looked horrible as the boils and burns of his addiction bubbled up at his skin and some part of me wondered why he had come to rely so heavily on ADAM when he already had his other problems hanging off him like a badge.  He looked so tired and I felt the pang of guilt hit my stomach.

He didn’t say much when we talked.  He sort of just stared at the wall, not cracking any jokes or trying to make me smile like he often did before.  I came to him when I could get away from Cohen, but something had changed within him during the months I not been able to visit.  He just seemed more interested in the bottle at his hands when he wasn’t staring at the wall.  He said he was fine and occasionally would break the silence between us with by asking how Cohen was doing since the uprising.

I just sat in the falling apart chairs around the table in his falling apart apartment and just wrung my hands sadly, watching him knock back his drink over the hours of the evening and trying to draw the old Rodriguez out.  I didn’t need to talk much to know how far gone he was.  Probably too far gone for me to do anything.  Everyone in Rapture was too far gone for me to do anything about it.  I couldn’t just give up, but I was so close to doing so.  Maybe I already had.  Maybe I should have just given in like the rest of them and jammed that needle into my arm just like Cohen had wanted. 

I stood up and came to his side and took his wrist.  I lowered the bottle onto the table.  I couldn’t say it, but I hoped that by stopping him from drinking again he’d get the message.  I saw the anger rise up in his eyes as I held him.  I shrunk back for a moment, but didn’t let my fingers free from his.

_I miss you_ I said

He shook his head with a pathetic little chuckle _yo también_.

Me too.

I kissed him and could taste Old Tom’s on his tongue.  It tasted disgusting.  At least it didn’t taste like Cohen’s kisses.  I hated his, but he was the one who took care of me.  Rodriguez couldn’t even take care of himself.

_Come with me_ he said and he kissed me again and pulled me to his room.  I tried not to make it personal with him.  But I couldn’t help but come to him when I could get away from Cohen.  Usually I came here in tears.

As I took his clothes off, he laid me across the bed.  He smelled aweful, but I didn’t tell him that.  The billowing of his skin wasn’t only on his face.  It ran across his chest and down his legs.  Hector used to look so handsome, but I could never say that to him either.  He didn’t need me to say that to him since he probably knew it already from the way I looked at him.  I shouldn’t have felt anything anymore.  Usually people didn’t feel anything when someone was ugly, but when he touched my chest under my shirt, I still felt the rush within me.  I shouldn’t have felt like this.  I shouldn’t have, but it did and it made me feel odd.

I remember the way his legs would wrap around me and how warm his chest felt the first time I slept with him.  He would whisper to me all the secret ways he knew to please Cohen, the fuzzy corner of his lip tickled my ear.  He used to be so strong back then.  He was talented in dancing and his body had reflected that, but now, he looked so weak.  His body was starting to twist out of shape just like the other Splicers and I didn’t like it.  I didn’t like it and yet here I was wrapped tightly around him, one hand pressed against his softening middle and the other latched onto a boil-filled arm.

He was warm.  That was one thing that had not changed.  Despite the atrophying of his body and he decay of his mind, despite the shifting of his features from his ADAM abuse, that was what made my heart flutter.  As he and I moved together, I had pressed my face into his chest and just felt the warmth against my cheek.  He was so much safer than Cohen was, I knew that no matter how drunk he was or no matter how angry he was that he would never raise a hand against me.  There were bruises all over me from my mentor, but I couldn’t talk about that.  No one would want to hear about it and Rodriguez didn’t ask.  Despite that, his fingers paused over them as he ran them over my body.

The love-making wasn’t the same as the time before and the time before that.  I don’t know what I was looking for before and I still didn’t know what I’m looking for now.  Perhaps I was desperate.  Perhaps I wanted to just not be handled roughly.  Perhaps I didn’t want to look up to see a painted on smile and running eye liner pinning me beneath him.  I wanted something, what it was, I didn’t know.

He wasn’t as gentle as he was before and that scared me a little.  But it also felt like he was searching for something when he kissed me and when he held his fingers in my hair as I held him in my mouth.  Something was off and I’m sure it wasn’t the ADAM.  I hope it wasn’t just the ADAM if it was.  I couldn’t fix the ADAM problem, but I could at least… maybe listen if there was something on his mind.

I composed a song for him once.  It’s not finished and I don’t think it ever will be, but I should show it to him in the future.  I’ve put it somewhere Cohen was sure to never find it.  I don’t know what he’d do if he found it.  I don’t know how he’d know it was for someone special who was not him.  Rodrigeuz’s name isn’t on it… maybe the man would just know by the musicality?  Maybe by the tone and tempo and the bar count changes and the crescendos he would just know.  It sounds too happy to have been for him.  I wrote it happy for Rodriguez, Lord knows he needs it.

I didn’t stay long after we finished.  He just looked so tired so when he rested his head against my chest, I moved it onto the pillow between us.  He slept so soundly, I thought he was dead.  The sheets hadn’t been washed in some time and even though it made my skin crawl, I couldn’t complain, there were too many places that looked like this now so I might as well enjoy the squalor with someone I actually wanted to.  I wanted to enjoy it with him, maybe.  But I could never do that.  Cohen would be mad if he woke up and I wasn’t there.  I couldn’t stay long.  This trip was for me and only me.  Sometimes I had to leave the fort to show myself I still could do things for myself.  Maybe…

Cohen would be so angry if he woke up and I wasn’t there.  I kissed Rodriguez on his forehead and brushed his hair back.

_Please don’t drink anymore…_

I don’t know why I asked him that when he was sleeping.  I don’t know why I couldn’t tell him that when he was awake.  I felt the shaking of my hands as the tears came to my eyes.  Cohen would be furious if I wasn’t back beside him when he woke up.


End file.
